


Takes Two to Make a Pair

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Series: Not Part of the Plan [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Arranged Marriage, Castiel POV, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Royalty, Wedding Night, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:48:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's time for Castiel to meet his future husband, Sam Winchester. Castiel resolves to play nice despite his personal misgivings, but out of all the challenges he'd expected to face, finding out the man he'd had a one night stand with is to be his brother-in-law isn't one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Content warning** : Technical infidelity - Castiel and Sam are engaged, but Castiel and Dean have sexually-charged interactions.

Castiel was brought up in a kingdom where custom and protocol permeate practically every aspect of everyday life. In many ways that world is all he’s ever known, despite what he’s read in books and seen in the movies.

The first thing Lady Winchester does, when Castiel meets her, is to offer her hand. It is this act, more than the food, or the wide highways of St. Lebanon, or the lack of dynastic statues in the Republic’s architecture, that makes Castiel realize just how far into foreign territory he is.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Castiel of Hortus,” Lady Winchester says.

Castiel recovers quickly, and accepts the handshake. “The pleasure is mine, Lady of Winchester.”

“Mary,” she says, her smile well-practiced but warm. “Let’s start this on the right foot, shall we?”

Castiel had been ordered to read Naomi’s lengthy dossier on the way here. He even actually skimmed a couple of pages before he’d lost interest, and he recalls clearly that he’s supposed to stick to certain topics ( _obviously_ ), terms and levels of familiarity as is befitting Castiel’s rank and that of the House of Winchester.

“I’m not supposed to use your given name,” Castiel says. “I’m quite sure the terms were specific on that front.”

“Well, if you’re particular about that sort of thing, I’m not the Lady of the House either,” she says. “That would be Sophia Winchester, who is very much alive, and whom I’m uninterested in usurping for the moment. By rank, better to refer to me as the Dame of Campbell.”

“But…” Castiel ignores the faint cough behind him – from Naomi, no doubt. “Didn’t you give up that heirship when you married Master John?”

“I think ‘Mary’ will do just fine,” Mistress Winchester says, with a little half-wink that for some odd reason seems familiar. “This is Kansas.”

“Yes,” Castiel says weakly. He takes in Mary’s face, her uniform, the chain of silver charms that hang from her wrists. The Mistress of Winchester is fair-haired and striking, her hair drawn in a loose style that Naomi would never approve of back in Michael’s court. “You do things differently here.”

“Indeed.” Mary’s eyes drift sideways, to the space above Castiel’s right shoulder. That look is meant for _Naomi_ , and Castiel is struck by sudden and chilling awareness of the many discussions that must have taken place in getting both sides to agree to this.

 _This_ being the first private meeting between Castiel’s retinue and the Winchesters, the latter of whom picked this lavish hotel villa – with an armed guard outside, of course – where both sides are supposed to stay while they negotiate the wedding contract and, in Castiel’s case, get to know his future husband.

The makeshift receiving area they’re standing in is subdued and almost library-like – which would normally be a source of comfort to Castiel, but is instead giving him vivid flashbacks to young life in Michael’s court. Both sides are mostly staying to their sides of the room while trying to pretend they’re not staying to their sides of the room, and Castiel is disconsolate at the implication that it is _his_ duty to bridge the divide.

“Where is your son?” Castiel asks. Mary’s gaze snaps to him, quick and assessing, so he continues, “If we can formalize this first meeting, then Naomi can send the dispatch to His Highness. It’s a lot to take in at once.”

“If you could give us half an hour,” Mary says. “Some persons who should be here aren’t yet.”

Naomi steps forward, appearing at Castiel’s elbow. “The groom isn’t here?”

“Sam is upstairs,” Mary says, with such terseness that Castiel’s now positive that she’s been exchanging blows with Naomi. “Just as we promised. But this is a big move for him, and I think he deserves some time to collect himself.”

“We had no control over the length of time _your_ government took to pick your House for this arrangement.” Naomi is too professional to do anything but smile, though, and Castiel resists the urge to take a step away from her. “How shall we proceed?”

“I would like some coffee,” Castiel says. “I see some on the table over there.”

“Help yourself,” Mary says. “The sandwiches are pretty good.”

Castiel makes a clean break for the refreshments, nodding with approval when he sees that they brought out the good beans. One of the perks of being well-to-do, he figures. There’s a young man already there helping himself to some fruit, and he draws up to formal attention when Castiel approaches.

“Who are you affiliated with?” Castiel says. “Am I allowed to talk to you?”

“Oh, I’m, I’m with the Council,” the young man says. “Kevin Tran.”

“You’re too young to be running a country.” Castiel frowns. “I should stop talking. Wouldn’t do to start an international incident before lunch.”

“I’m not running the government _alone_. I’m in the…” Kevin pauses, perhaps trying to whittle down his job description into something Castiel will understand. “I assist the ministers. Like how you assist His Highness?”

“Is that what you were told about me?”

Kevin frowns. “Is that wrong?”

“Unbelievable.” Castiel glares at the tiny, impractical cups that they’re supposed to use. The set probably costs more than his entire project grant back at the University. The chinaware itself may be innocent, but it represents everything Castiel loathes about today.

Castiel’s wearing clothes that are stiff and uncomfortable and made by Michael’s personal tailor. Castiel is being bartered for an arrangement he doesn’t believe in. Castiel never considered getting married before, and even if he did he’d have had to jump through hoops to obtain Michael’s permission, so he’d always thought that if he ever wanted to be with someone he’d be perfectly content to live in sin.

(“See, Castiel, this is why it’s best it be you,” Naomi had said. “You have no obligations.”

“The University _is_ an obligation—”

“You have no _emotional_ obligations. You aren’t betraying anyone by committing to a marriage that will benefit the kingdom.”)

Castiel doesn’t count as _anyone_ , apparently.

Though this is neither the time nor the place to be frustrated. After all, Castiel’s had weeks to be frustrated, during which he’d wrapped up his work and caught up on his reading on international relations and got started on his long-delayed research on the sex he will no doubt be expected to perform after his wedding.

It’s an odd thing, but Castiel thinks he can feel the imprint of Dean’s hands on his hips. It’s a phantom touch, but even if its presence is purely psychological, it’s still a comfort. Castiel had been right to ask that Dean not leave any physical marks, but some smaller, even more selfish part of Castiel wishes he’d allowed Dean to, if only so he will have something truly _his_ to wear today.

It’s improper to think of another man as he’s waiting for his future husband. Castiel considers _that_ , and then considers how relatively improper it would be to use one of table’s punch bowls as a coffee holder. Lesser of two evils?

The background murmuring increases in volume, cutting through Castiel’s thoughts. He looks up.

On one side of the receiving room there’s a winding staircase leading to the upper floor. A tall young man dressed in the silvers and blacks of the House of Winchester is descending it now. The locals watching him surreptitiously straighten their posture.

Here is the boy.

Here is Sam of Winchester, who – according to Naomi’s sanitized dossier – is a learned young man who’d recently started to follow his grandfather’s footsteps with the Men of Letters, though he has yet to achieve full initiation. Sam appears to recognize Castiel immediately, and approaches with steady, long strides.

He isn’t as young as he was in the photograph, which is a relief. Even so, the age difference between them is obvious, as is the way Sam’s uniform fits him poorly – too short in the leg and too taut across his shoulders. Sam’s hair has been combed, but it’s long about the ears and across his eyebrows, another mark of youthfulness.

After those long weeks of anxiety and frustration and anger, Castiel feels something inside him quietly sit down.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel says. Everything they say at this point is going to be recorded, he knows. “I am Castiel of Hortus, and I’m pleased to meet you.”

Sam bows. Since there’s a lot of him to bow it takes a while, and when he comes back up there’s a visible nervous flex in his throat that makes Castiel feel like a heel.

“I’m pleased as well, sir,” Sam says quietly. “How are you… Um. I hope your journey went well?”

“Yes, thank you. Your country has many lovely sights. Perhaps I’ll have a better chance to see them up close in the future.” Sam stiffens at that, and Castiel internally curses his wording. “I’m about to have some tea, would you like to join me?”

Sam glances down at the tiny cups. His hands are even bigger than Castiel’s, and Castiel would laugh at the absurdity of it if he suspected that wouldn’t make Naomi metaphorically throw something at his head.

“Okay,” Sam says in a small voice.

“Okay,” Castiel echoes. They turn to the refreshments table.

It’s awkward. It was always going to be awkward, of course, and the only question was _how_ that awkwardness would play out. Castiel has to be perfectly honest – when he was first told of this proposal his expectation had been that the other end of the bargain held a lecherous, elderly person.

It’s disconcerting to learn that the lecherous elderly person in this exchange is _Castiel._

“How is the coffee?” Sam asks politely.

“Quite good, thank you,” Castiel says. “How’s yours?”

“Good, yeah.” Sam coughs under his breath.

The young man is unhappy. It’s painfully obvious how unhappy he is, just as it’s painfully obvious how determined he is to put on a good front. Did Sam volunteer for this? Did his parents? Did they fight for it, or were they a last choice? Were they encouraged to take it when none of the other Houses would volunteer? According to Naomi’s dossier the House of Winchester isn’t one of the most prominent families of the Republic. They have access to many resources due to their link to the Men of Letters, but Sam belongs to an estranged junior branch of the House, mainly due to the supposedly controversial marriage of Sam’s parents.

There has to be something this House is offering Michael.

What’s more important to the Winchesters, though, is what Michael is offering _them_.

Castiel doesn’t know the answer to either, because he’s not important enough to know.

He sighs and takes another slow sip of his drink. Every so often he glances over at Sam, who is trying his level best to retain his poker face, but it’s a long way before his skill will be polished.

“I’m a professor,” Castiel says. “At the Hortus University.”

Sam’s eyes are little startled when they jump to Castiel’s, but he nods slowly. “Yes, I’m aware of your peerage, sir.”

“No, no that. I don’t _own_ Hortus, I’m a literal professor. I teach and do research in extended alchemy. I had the privilege of reading your grandfather’s papers, as well as many of the Men of Letters’ publications before the Wall came down.”

Sam’s face changes. Curiosity lights up his face, but he holds himself back, unwilling to say more than a careful, “Oh, I see.”

“I travelled across the Isles before that,” Castiel continues. “Mostly to collect samples and observe the work of my peers. I’ve always wanted to visit the Men of Letters as well, so to see their work first hand and ask some questions. Preferably difficult ones.”

Sam cracks a smile, but then quickly drops his gaze to the floor.

“Don’t call me ‘sir’,” Castiel says. “Please. ‘Castiel’ will do.”

“Okay,” Sam replies.

“May I call you Sam?”

Sam shrugs a little, nervous. “Yes. Sure, thank you.”

 _Why_ , Castiel wants to shout, _why_ did they pick this boy for this? Castiel, at least, comes from a family that’s used each other for millennia. The Republic is supposed to be better than this – isn’t that why they split from the kingdom in the first place? Castiel may be an old bachelor but Sam is young and has his whole life ahead of him. Worse yet is how Sam cannot look him in the eye, as though he’d been trained for it or, worse yet, told perfectly legitimate horror stories on what to expect from his new husband.

Castiel was set to become the resident asshole here, but fate’s decided to deny him even that. Now Castiel has to take care of this boy, because Naomi and Michael sure as hell won’t.

“May we have the photograph now?” Castiel says loudly, turning to Naomi. “Or at least officially postpone it? Sam is tired and wishes to retire.”

“Master Winchester is travelling up now,” Naomi says. Mary’s a little ways off to one side of the room, talking with someone else. “Just a moment.”

“Your father is working today?” Castiel asks, turning back to Sam.

“Yes,” Sam says, a little too quickly. “He got called away suddenly, you know how it is. My – my brother is collecting him.”

“Yes, of course.”

Castiel must tell Sam as soon as possible that he doesn’t expect conjugal relations between them. He should also make clear in the contract that monogamy isn’t expected – goodness knows a young man like Sam shouldn’t attach himself to someone whose sexual experience is a wasteland. It’s true that up until very recently Castiel had been under the impression he didn’t care much for sex; the encounter with Dean proved that wrong, meaning that it’s possible that there could be other non-sexual things he might learn to enjoy.

Marriage could be that. Or a platonic companionship, at least. Castiel’s experience with such partners is limited but he knows friendship, and it had been easy – _fantastically_ easy – to fall into something carnal and warm with Dean. It’s possible that Castiel may find something in between the two ends with Sam. The young man might have a lot to say if he had the leave to say it. Castiel can offer him his ear, and they’ll see where it goes from there.

“They’re here, sir,” Sam says. “Um. Castiel.”

Castiel tugs the lapel of his jacket, straightening the material. He moves automatically, placing himself at Sam’s side as he turns to receive his future father-in-law.

One thing is immediately clear – John of Winchester isn’t the diplomat of the family. He may be dressed in his colors and walking an acceptable pace towards Castiel, but his expression has none of Mary’s neutral aloofness, and is more likely that he had had to be dragged to this event, possibly by the young man currently shadowing him on his side. Mary’s taken up point on John’s other side, too, as though the two of them are prepared to tackle John if he tries to make a break for it.

Surely there has to be _someone_ in this family who wants this marriage?

“Master Winchester,” Castiel says. Sam had bowed to him, so Castiel returns the custom and now bows to John. “I’m grateful for your presence, sir.”

“Sure you are,” John says. His scowl is impressive, but Castiel has been glared at by the best. “We welcome you, Castiel of….”

“Hortus,” Mary says.

“Hortus,” John echoes, with a deliberate press on the ‘ _s’_ that, funnily enough, makes Castiel think of Zachariah.

Well, Castiel had a good run. More than ten years of independence (see: expulsion from court) in which he could do as he wished as long as what he wished would never come back as scandal to affect Michael. Castiel has studied, taught, traveled, starved and worked ‘til blisters broke his fingertips, and he is glad for every single moment. Castiel’s memories are a kaleidoscope of color, and he also has the bone-deep satisfaction of capping that off with a roll in the hay with a continental stranger.

Castiel knows he shouldn’t be thinking about _that_ right now, but it makes sense that he is. He’s standing beside his future husband and facing off his future father-in-law, and he’s expected to _fight_ for the privilege to stand where he is. It’s ridiculous, but many things about Castiel’s life are, and so what if he finds comfort in the vibrant memory of that secret act of rebellion. It’s a reminder of his own humanity, and that joy can be found in unexpected places, and that even at his age there’s still potential to be open to new experiences.

But Castiel really _must_ stop thinking about it, because it’s clouding his brain and affecting his eyes – so much so that the man standing next to John looks eerily similar to Dean.

What’s funny, though, is that Sam’s brother is _also_ named Dean; Castiel had found that coincidence amusing when he’d read Naomi’s dossier. _This_ man is a little taller than Castiel’s Dean, though, and has combed-down hair and a clean-shaven face. That said, the breadth of his shoulders is similar, as does the impressive way he fills out his black and silver uniform, hunter stripes cutting dramatic lines across his cuffs.

“My other son,” John says. “Dean of Winchester.”

Dean of Winchester is staring at Castiel. If Castiel is reading his expression at all accurately, Dean’s face is one of mild horror.

The illusion doesn’t fade. That _is_ Dean’s face.

Castiel feels his own face freeze up.

_What._

Dean bows. The motion is quick and perfunctory – different from the ceremony of Sam’s deep bow. Then he nods once and licks his lips – _Castiel knows that move_ – and then adjusts his eyeline to look at something over Castiel’s shoulder.

“So now we’re all here,” Mary says, stepping forward to take John’s arm. “Let’s take that photograph.”

There is – movement. Castiel barely notices it for the roaring in his head, that little mental voice going _now isn’t that funny?_ over and over in his head and getting a little more hysterical each time. Eventually he registers that he’s been manhandled into a small flock of bodies, Sam at his side and the Winchesters (and _Dean_ ) arranged around them, along with Naomi, Ion and Rachel who are representing Castiel’s family.

Assistants fuss over them, fixing hair and clothes and dabbing make-up in a blur of activity. Then the photographer raises her arm and announces, “Everyone focus on the red light, please!”

The machinegun-like clicking of the camera is frantic and ominous.

“All right, that’s enough excitement for one day,” Mary says. “You agree, Castiel?”

“Yes,” Castiel hears himself distantly. “Yes, of course.”

“We will come to you for lunch,” Naomi says. She gives Castiel a meaningful look.

Castiel blinks. “Ah, yes.” He turns to Sam.

Sam doesn’t hesitate here, at least, and leans towards Castiel expectantly. Castiel moves up to meet him, careful not to touch his future husband’s body, and presses a kiss to his cheek. Castiel’s treacherous eye drifts over to where Dean is standing at rapt attention by his mother’s side, and the burn in Castiel’s well-used ass – which had been barely noticeable all morning – gleefully decides to make itself known.

“Thank you,” Sam says when Castiel pulls back, but it’s barely audible.

* * *

The next few days feature Castiel and Sam’s official courtship, consisting of carefully-timed lunches and breakfasts and walks in the roof garden.

Sam is polite but restrained, though sometimes Castiel gets glimpses of the brilliant mind he’s chosen (or been instructed to) keep hidden. Usually this happens when Castiel talks about the University, or the retainers of his House, but as soon as Castiel thinks he may have found a topic to draw Sam out of his shell, Ion or Rachel would cough, reminding him that they aren’t married yet and some things are not to be shared with the House of Winchester.

Chaperones are a necessary part of the process, of course. Ion is there in Naomi’s stead, and Rachel is part of Castiel’s household.

Unfortunately, Sam’s escort is his brother, Dean.

The thing is, Castiel _wants_ to develop some kind of rapport with Sam. He truly does, because Sam is as much a victim of circumstance as he is, and it would be nice to have someone to commiserate with.

But it’s difficult to focus on his future husband when Castiel’s brain keeps supplying unhelpful tangents such as: _his brother knows what my penis tastes like._

Not that Dean’s made any sign that he’s perturbed by this situation. He hasn’t said more than two words to Castiel since their reintroduction, though he remains a solemn background presence during Castiel’s courtship meetings with Sam. Dean’s expression only gentles whenever Sam looks his way, his small nods to his younger brother made to encourage. Castiel only gets cool glares, if anything at all.

Perhaps Dean’s content to pretend that their encounter never happened.

Which is fine.  

More than fine, it’s excellent, because it means that Dean doesn’t care about the serendipitous events that brought them back into each other’s orbit. They can go about their business and happily pretend to not know each other at all – technically that’s even _true_ , because Castiel _doesn’t_ know Dean. He barely recognizes this Dean, with his neat hair and impersonal smiles and sharp-pressed uniform. The warm, disheveled man Castiel met in the bar was perhaps some kind of mirage.

Besides, Dean’s presence doesn’t change anything. Castiel’s still getting married to Sam, still fated to be used as a propaganda icon. It doesn’t matter what Castiel had done with a stranger in his own time, and it doesn’t matter that that stranger is now to be his brother-in-law. It’s not as though Castiel had realistically hoped to see Dean again either; fantasies are fine, but Castiel has his limits when it comes to being selfish.

It would be nice to have someone he could talk to about this. Rachel would be discreet and agreeable to listen, but she’d also be judgmental, and Castiel’s feeling a little delicate at the moment.

Castiel’s taken by surprise, then, when Rachel breaks the topic anyway. It happens while they’re in one of the presentation rooms, waiting while Sam and his assistant set up the piano for his recital. Dean is, of course, hovering near Sam’s side, carrying Sam’s music books.

Castiel and Rachel are sitting in chairs set up for the recital’s small audience, Rachel close enough to Castiel that she can whisper to him safely, “Master Dean should stop procrastinating, what with the way he keeps shooting daggers at you.”

Bringing up his name has Castiel automatically looking at Dean, who happens to _not_ be glaring at him at the moment. “What are you talking about?” Castiel says.

“You know what I’m talking about, you’ve noticed it well enough,” Rachel says. “He wants to speak to you but hasn’t found the right opportunity.”

Castiel does not panic. “What makes you say that?’

“He’s Sam’s older brother,” Rachel says in amusement. “You should know what that means.”

“Oh.” It takes a moment, and Castiel relaxes with understanding. “He is to Sam, as Anna is to me?”

“Well, obviously. As Master Sam’s brother, he is duty-bound to warn you to do right by him. Mistress Mary is all business, and Master John seems to prefer to pretend that this isn’t happening.” Rachel hums thoughtfully. “I’ll arrange something for you, don’t worry.”

“You don’t have to,” Castiel says weakly.

“It’ll do both of you good,” Rachel replies firmly. “Especially if it’ll get him stop looking like he wants to throw you out the nearest window.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Castiel says. He nods at Sam, who has sit down to start playing. “Let’s listen now.”

* * *

Rachel fulfills her threat, though. It takes another day for her to do it, meaning that by the time it happens Castiel has let his guard down, believing that conversation forgotten. It simply doesn’t occur to Castiel to suspect anything Dean-related when Rachel corners him outside his rooms just when he’s about to go down for dinner.

“Drop by the telephone room first,” Rachel tells Castiel. “I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

“All right.” Castiel goes, because why wouldn’t he? Rachel holds his schedule and makes sure he’s wherever he’s supposed to be whenever he’s supposed to be there, and Castiel likes her enough that he’ll follow her instructions (which Naomi well knows, since she gave Rachel the position). If Rachel tells him to go the telephone room, then he’ll go to the telephone room.

Where, unfortunately, Dean is waiting. Alone.

Apparently both of them didn’t see this coming, because Dean appears as shocked to see him as it is the other way round. The door, on automatic hinges, clicks shut behind Castiel.

Dean breaks the silence with a heartwarming: “Aww shit. Where’s Rachel?”

Castiel recovers. “Rachel?”

“Hey, man, I don’t know your customs that well.” Dean shrugs, the movement breathtakingly casual, before he remembers himself and stands to attention. “She said I had to be here for an audience with you or something. No one briefed me on it but I figured I’d go along. Is she coming or not?

“I believe not,” Castiel says.

“Great!” Dean exclaims. “So what am I supposed to do? Kiss your hand or something?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Castiel snaps, which makes Dean visibly bristle. “Rachel called for this because you’re not being subtle. She noticed the threatening way you look at me, though her assumption is luckily a mistaken one. She thinks you’re looking out for your brother’s honor.”

Dean’s smile is slow and sarcastic. “Why do you assume she’s mistaken?”

“Excuse me?”

“Seems a perfect reason to me,” Dean says. “After all, you did cheat on my brother.”

Castiel scowls. “What?”

“You gonna run that act by me now?” Dean laughs. “You can comb your hair and talk fancy and play dress-up all you like, that don’t mean shit ‘cause I _know_ you’re a liar and a cheat—”

“I did not cheat!” Castiel snaps. “I didn’t even know it was going to be your brother until—”

“Oh, you mean on your planet it’s totally okay to go out and pick up a stranger after you get engaged? See, we don’t do that here. And who knows what the fuck kind of disease you could be passing on to Sam.”

“I know to protect myself, as you are _well aware_ ,” Castiel hisses.

Dean flushes, but his expression is no less dangerous. “You are damn lucky I haven’t ratted you out.”

“I don’t care if you do,” Castiel says, scowling harder when Dean scoffs. “Do you think I care about this marriage? Do you think that I want it?”

“Look, man… _Manny_.” Dean sneers. “You’re the ones who came to us about this whole fucking charade—”

“Is that what your Council told you?” Castiel retorts. “And you trust them? I seem to recall that you don’t _._ Well, guess what, Dean – I’m as swept up in this as you brother is. The only reason I was picked is because I’m the most disposable of Michael’s family. You think he’d spare someone he actually _needs_?”

They’ve been circling each other in the small room since this argument started – Dean more than Castiel, in his restlessness and frustration – but now they’ve both stopped. Dean is breathing heavily, the heaving of his chest particularly prominent because there’s so much physical chest to heave beneath that form-fitting uniform. Not that Castiel wants to notice that on purpose.

At long last Dean says, “So you thought you’d go out for one last fuck?”

Castiel almost laughs. “ _First_ fuck, Dean. But doesn’t it make sense? For all I knew I was being married off to someone who wanted me face down and nothing else from our wedding night onward. I am angry and scared, and I decided to use the last of my freedom on something worthwhile.”

“Scared,” Dean echoes, startled. “You?”

“Yes.” Something inside Castiel shudders with relief at finally being able to say that out loud. “Judge all you like, Dean. I searched for something that I could have for myself. Something untouched by the kingdom, or Michael, or Naomi. That night was all _mine_ , by my choice and on my own terms, and I will not be made to feel bad about it.”

Castiel stands his ground. Dean doesn’t move away either; he’s standing there measuring Castiel’s words and face, and although his frown is fading away he no doubt finds Castiel lacking. The relief of being honest may be tainted with bitterness, but Castiel will not back down.

“Jesus, Cas.” Dean shakes his head. “You could’ve got someone who hurt you.”

Castiel shrugs. “So what? I still would’ve learned something.”

“That’s fucked up,” Dean says quietly.

“Lucky me, then,” Castiel says. “I happened to find someone kind, patient, and generous. It is a memory worth treasuring.”

Dean swallows. “Yeah?”

“Of course,” Castiel replies sharply. “You might not think much of it because of all your experience, but I have none, and it was fantastic.”

“It’s not like you got anything to compare—”

“I _liked_ it,” Castiel hisses. “I liked it, and it’s _mine_ , and no one can take that away from me, not even you.”

Dean stares at him. Castiel has a faint feeling of victory, although he’s not entirely sure what they’re arguing about at this point. All he knows is that he can finally see the cracks in Dean’s professional performance of the past few days, and it sends jitters of excitement coursing through Castiel.

Then Dean moves. Castiel’s reflexes are reasonably good but he doesn’t see this one coming, doesn’t realize what’s about to happen until Dean’s hand is behind his neck and he’s being kissed. Dean Winchester has swooped in and is _kissing_ him, and Castiel is shocked for all of two seconds before his body catches up on current events, sense memory of their night together commanding Castiel to part his lips and hold on for dear life.

Dean is everywhere, absolute and overwhelming. His mouth is a furnace for Castiel to breathe into, his body a wall for Castiel to climb. Their lips surge and press and sweep against each other, the kisses clumsier than the ones Castiel had before, yet deeper, more aching. Dean moves, pushing gently but firmly until there’s the press of wall against Castiel’s back where he’s shoved up against it.

This is what it feels like to be consumed, and all the frustration and restlessness of the past few days find their outlet, Castiel kissing back as frantically as he’s being kissed, and wrapping a leg around Dean’s thigh in gaining purchase.

That’s definitely arousal Castiel feels against his leg. Castiel’s shudders at the knowledge that that’s been _inside_ him, and his ass clenches down in nostalgic eagerness for a repeat performance.

Someone screams.

Dean pulls away with a shocked, “Bluh”. Castiel blinks rapidly to clear his vision, and squints in the direction Dean is staring.

Kevin is in the open doorway, mouth open around the now-silent scream. He turns and runs.

“Fuck,” Dean snarls. Castiel flings his arms back against the wall, releasing Dean so that he can chase after the young man.

This gives Castiel a chance to breathe, to press a hand against his tender mouth and wonder _what the hell_ he’d been thinking. This is precisely the line that Castiel doesn’t care to cross, and he’d just crossed it.

“You didn’t see anything,” Dean says. He’s returned to the room with Kevin caught in a hold, a hand clamped around his mouth. “Kev, you listening? You didn’t see anything ‘cause there was nothing to see.”

Shame warms Castiel’s face, but he forces himself to meet Kevin’s gaze. It isn’t anger he gets in return but sheer panic, Kevin’s eyes wide and darting around helplessly.

“I’m moving my hand now,” Dean says.

As soon as his mouth is free, Kevin blurts out, “I didn’t see anything!”

“Oh no,” Castiel says shakily.

“You guys were just talking!” Kevin exclaims. “I was looking for – for – nothing to see, didn’t see anything because there was nothing to see!”

“Calm down,” Dean orders.

Kevin does. He has to take a deep breath to do it, but he does. Dean loosens the rest of his hold and Kevin steps away, bouncing a little on his feet to resettle himself. He doesn’t look at Castiel. “Uh. Um, might want to make a move on, Dean. You’re kinda late.”

“Yeah.” Dean licks his lips. Castiel wishes he didn’t notice it. “Yeah, we better go.”

“Yes,” Kevin agrees, nodding rapidly.

Castiel doesn’t say anything. His legs feel week and unable to support the rest of him. Good thing there’s a wall at his back. A solid wall is comforting, especially when it feels like he’s about to fly apart.

“One more thing,” Dean says, sounding dangerously calm. “You stay away from me, Castiel.”

Castiel gasps. “You stay away from _me_ ,” he replies, voice shaking with anger. “You—you’re the one who—”

But Dean doesn’t even bother to acknowledge that. He just turns his back to Castiel and leaves with Kevin, closing the door as he goes.

Castiel gapes at the door, shaken and enraged and disgusted at himself. “How dare _you_ ,” he exclaims. “How _dare_ you.”

It doesn’t satisfy.


	2. Chapter 2

Rachel is dismayed. “It didn’t help?”

“I didn’t help,” Castiel says. “In fact I think it’s best you stay away from Dean as much as possible.”

“Did you insult him? Why would you make it worse?”

“Some things are simply beyond our control, though I thank you for the…” Castiel scowls at her. “Why do you assume that it’s my fault?”

“Well.” Rachel pushes the day’s itinerary into his hands, and Castiel tries not to be affronted. “Come on, we have a busy day.”

* * *

The Cold War that follows between him and Dean is an unusual one. Castiel is angry, yes, but anger can be managed. There’s no chance that he will give Dean the satisfaction of seeing Castiel thrown off-balance by their argument (or by the way Dean _kissed him first_ ). If Dean wants to play a game of indifference, then Castiel is happy to oblige.

So Castiel continues to be attentive on his fiancé. It’s mind over matter, that’s all.

Castiel does not feel guilty that Kevin now refuses to meet his eyes whenever they cross paths (Dean is completely free to handle _that_ , since it’s obvious he wants to). Castiel does _not_ wonder what Dean’s thinking, or how Dean justifies not telling the full story to his beloved family, or whether the hunger Castiel tasted briefly is evidence Dean desires him despite everything. That’s all irrelevant. There are so many more important things to think about.

Most important is how Castiel and Sam have finally reached the stage where they can discuss the finer details of their contract. Sam is knowledgeable here, too, and due to the sensitivity of the topic they’re allowed to stay in a private room with only their immediate chaperones present – both of whom are staying on their side of the room, Rachel reading a book and Dean playing pool by himself.

Here Castiel spends an interesting hour or so learning about the Winchester and Campbell estates, the portions due to John and Mary, and what Sam expects to inherit when his own time comes. The numbers are modest, though Castiel is piqued by how warmly Sam talks about the Lawrence property.

“I was wondering…” Sam hesitates. He opens topics so rarely, so Castiel is content to stay silent while Sam gathers his thoughts. “The contract talks about services and annuity and who owns what, but nothing about, um… about what happens after the wedding?”

“There is.” Castiel flips through the pages of the bound document, the pages full of comments, doodles and question marks. “Here are the terms of the honeymoon, the progress through the kingdom, the optional progress through the Republic, and formal appearances afterward.”

“What about living arrangements?”

“I would like to return to my post, and I assume you’ll want to continue your learning with the Men of Letters?” Sam nods. “Then we shall. We have leave to do as we wish, as long as it doesn’t break any of the other clauses.”

Sam frowns a little. Castiel’s surprised by his reaction, for he thought Sam would be relieved but instead he looks worried.

“Both of us will be greatly compensated by the Crown,” Castiel reminds him. “And we will remain in contact as necessary to coordinate official appearances and whatnot.”

“What about issue?” Sam asks.

Castiel starts. “Do you want children?”

“Oh _god_.” Sam chokes on the blaspheme, chair scraping the floor when he stands up sharply. His hands are pressed to his face, hiding most of his features, but Castiel can hear the wheeze of panic. “Oh my god I can’t do this, _I can’t do this_.”

“Sam—” Castiel tries.

But Dean’s already there, the mindful elder brother clasping Sam’s arm and guiding him away to safety. Castiel remains where he is, watching helplessly as Dean ducks his head, whispering whatever comforting words he knows best to calm Sam’s shaking shoulders.

Castiel glances over at Rachel, whose her expression is sympathetic but neutral.

“No!” Sam snaps at his brother. Castiel jumps in surprise, and is further taken aback when Dean raises his hands in placation. The brothers are arguing now, softly but furiously, and Castiel feels a chill at this unexpected shattering of Sam’s mask.

“Sam—” Dean says.

“ _No_.” Sam shoves Dean away, a childish gesture that Dean accepts with a weary sigh. Sam whirls around, returning his full attention to Castiel. Sam’s eyes are bright and his mouth stubborn, and Castiel is starkly reminded of the injustice that lead them to this conversation.

Sam takes a deep breath, throat bobbing when he swallows nervously. “Tell me something real,” he says. “Something real about you.”

“Something... real?” Castiel says.

“Something more than – than what gets written down,” Sam presses. “I don’t know you, I don’t _know anything_ , no one’s telling me the whole story and it’s driving me _crazy_.”

“Castiel,” Rachel warns.

Castiel hushes her with a quick gesture. Sam is almost shaking, and this may be as good an opportunity as they can get before the nuptials.

“The official line is that Michael allowed me to leave the capital to pursue my interests,” Castiel says. “The actuality is that Michael is horrified by the idea that any of his kin would want to leave the security of his court. So he wove that story instead, and it also helped bolster his reputation as an understanding lord of the family.”

“Why you?” Sam asks. “Why’d he pick you?”

“I am alone and unattached,” Castiel says. “I don’t own much property, or have any military or financial power. I have no interest in asking anything significant of my spouse, or working against Michael, or interfering in the ways of the Republic. I am conveniently quiet and private, making me perfect for Michael’s purpose.”

Sam turns away, eyes drifting to the view beyond the closed window. Castiel doesn’t know him well enough to identify that as introspection or longing, but beyond Sam’s shoulder Dean is standing stiffly in readiness to move again.

“Then why _me_?” Sam asks quietly.

“I can’t answer that,” Castiel says. “Michael picked me. Who picked you?”

Sam barks a laugh, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet room. He turns around in a slow, restless circle, his hands moving over his face and hair as he goes. Castiel doesn’t say anything, waiting until he’s finished his rotation, taken a deep breath and finally mustered the will to meet Castiel’s eyes again.

“But Michael, His Highness, he won’t... Can he _make_ us have children?”

“As my spouse you will be under the jurisdiction of the Crown,” Castiel says. “I doubt he has any interest in continuing my line, but legally – yes, he can.”

“So he can pick the surrogate? Or choose the child to be adopted? How does that... How can he...”

“That’s been the way of my kingdom for a very long time,” Castiel says, as gently as he can. “And Sam... you won’t be able to say things like this when we’re there. It’s treason.”

“You’ve _never_ questioned him?” Sam challenges.

“I’ve been living there longer,” Castiel replies. “I have more experience circumventing the dangers.”

“And you’re family,” Sam points out. He is quite accurate.

It’s why Castiel gets away with as much as he does with Naomi and Ion. It helps that they know very well how harmless he is; Castiel isn’t an exhibitionist like Balthazar, or incendiary like Anna. Castiel may grumble and groan, but his true talent lies in being unremarkable. No doubt Michael still thinks of him merely as Anna’s younger brother, i.e. the unfortunate one who had no choice but to be influenced by her radical thinking.

Castiel has little idea how Anna will react to this wedding, if she hasn’t heard about it already. He half-thinks she’ll crash the event and whisk him away, if she thought she could break through Naomi’s defenses.

Sam has a family that loves him, too. Dean’s face is one of very practiced control, and there’s no doubt he will be at Sam’s side for as long as he is able and wanted.

“Family counts for a great deal, yes,” Castiel says. “Michael will be generous with you through me. I’m quite certain of that.”

“What if I want – what if I want my own place here?” Sam asks. “What if I want to live here?”

“I could ask him to buy a place for you here,” Castiel says.

“What about companionship?”

“I have no problem if you wish to have other partners of your own. The contract terms request discreetness, not exclusivity.”

“What if I never want to see you outside of – of – of official capacity?”

Castiel double-takes. Sam seems to remember himself, and immediately drops his gaze to the floor in an act of demureness that doesn’t fool anyone anymore. Castiel answers carefully, “If you like.”

This answer doesn’t placate Sam, either. He turns his back to Castiel again, lost to some argument in his mind and ignoring Dean’s subtle headshake.

“I can’t undo the situation we’re in,” Castiel says. “But I can make it as painless for you as is in my power.”

This is, Castiel realizes, the closest to an actual proposal that he’ll ever make in his lifetime.

That thought would a wear a person down if they studied it too closely, so Castiel doesn’t. What he does is make his declaration as honestly and earnestly as he can.

“We could perhaps start by being allies, if you like,” Castiel says. “We’re in this situation together, and sometimes all it takes is one other person to understand. There’s no need to answer me now, Sam, just… think about it first. How about we continue this session tomorrow, is that all right?”

Sam nods, his back still to Castiel. Dean nods at Castiel as well; he’s still scowling, but there’s a softer gratefulness in there, which Castiel hopes will translate into effective brotherly support later. He leads his brother out of the room, Sam following his lead docilely.

Castiel exhales. “That went well.”

“He’s unhappy,” Rachel says.

“Tell me something not completely obvious.”

Rachel picks up the contract from Castiel’s table, carefully closing the pages. “Castiel, he’s unhappy because you’re nice.”

“That’s not what he… what?”

“You’re reasonable and undemanding. If you were, say, like Ion, he’d have no problem pushing back. But he can’t, because you are who you are and you’re not giving him something to rail against.” Rachel shakes her head. “Naomi couldn’t have picked a better candidate.”

Castiel scowls. “You could try saying that with less admiration.”

“Wouldn’t make it any less true.”

“Everything that happened here is confidential,” Castiel says. “Everything, is that understood?”

Rachel inclines her head. “Yes, of course, but…” She snaps her mouth shut when then the door opens again.

It’s Dean, surprisingly returning to the scene. He’s alone now, Sam presumably deposited safely somewhere else, but whatever it is that’s making Dean head straight for Castiel with such purposeful strides cannot be a good thing.

Dean stops just before Castiel, and that similar stubborn jut to his jaw must be familial trait. “Sam’s a good kid.” He grimaces. “A good man. And he’s gonna be a great one in no time. He’s smart, sharp as a tack, and he’s full of ideas. He’ll be able to keep up with you and Michael’s court and then some.”

 _Oh_. “You don’t have to apologize for him, Dean.”

“I’m not apologizing—okay, I’m kind of apologizing but it’s… I don’t want him to get into trouble, okay?”

Castiel smiles. “I doubt you or I could prevent that.” Dean’s face does a strange dance at that, going from startled to uncertain to suspicious. Castiel really does mean it in a non-malicious way, so he adds, “He may make waves wherever he goes, and delight in it as he makes them. That is what being headstrong is. I will watch out for him, as is my duty.”

“That’s supposed to be _my_ job,” Dean says, not without a touch of bitterness.

“You do a tremendous job of it,” Castiel agrees. “It’s wonderful that he has you to look after him at this time.”

Dean’s eyes briefly dart sideways to where Rachel is browsing the contract and paying them little attention. He seems to want to say something but changes his mind, some conflict or self-control holding back his initial statement. Dean is a passionate man, restricted by his uniform but determined to help his brother regardless. It’s wonderful in its own way, even though it makes Castiel ache in the pit of homesickness he seems to be carrying in his stomach all the time.

Given the choice, Castiel wouldn’t want to be reasonable about this. Put him in the same room as Naomi and he _definitely_ wouldn’t be reasonable about this. But Naomi isn’t here; Dean is.

“I know he deserves better,” Castiel says. “I understand. The Crown will be very generous with its grants – Sam will not want for money or connections. It’s not enough of a consolation, I know, but it’s something.”

“Yeah.” A corner of Dean’s mouth twitches, but that’s not really a smile. “He could do worse.”

Castiel shifts uncomfortably. “Perhaps you should see to him now.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that. Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel joins Rachel at the table while Dean leaves, and pointedly ignores Rachel’s frown.

* * *

Castiel’s private rooms are ridiculous and ostentatious, but he approves of the bed. Not the _whole_ bed, because he doesn’t see the point of the poster frame and drapes, but the mattress is sublime and the covers miraculous. Despite the stress of the situation, Castiel’s actually been getting some decent sleep, restful and indulgent, and it’s _nice_. It might even be something Naomi has done on purpose to keep him agreeable – he honestly wouldn’t put it past her.

So it’s a surprise that night to be rudely woken up by strong hands shaking his shoulders. Castiel snaps awake to the sight of Rachel standing over him.

“Get up,” Rachel says. “Naomi’s summoned you.”

“Now?” Castiel squints up at her. It can’t be morning already.

“Yes, _now_.”

“Why?”

“ _Castiel_.”

“You don’t know.” Castiel tries to pull the covers back up, only for Rachel to yank them away. “I’m royalty, Rachel.”

“Oh _now_ you’re royalty.”

It takes some effort to get up, though, Castiel knocking his knees against the side table before Rachel takes his arm and leads him out, out of the bedroom and through the private exit into the narrow unlit hallways and stairs. They soon reach a door that to Castiel’s sleep-disturbed eyes is identical to all the doors they’d seen on the way.

Beyond the door is a small, windowless room where the lights are on and furniture arranged into a makeshift meeting area.

The only person sitting down is Naomi. She is dressed the most casual that Castiel’s ever seen her, her normal suits absent though her dress shirt still sharp and buttoned up. In various states of standing around or pacing the room are Ion, Mary, John and Dean – all four of them wrapped up in their robes.

Castiel sighs. Of course he’s the only one only in his pajamas.

“Right,” Ion says urgently, flapping a hand at a chair for Castiel to sit down. “Now that everyone’s here—”

“You’re not even listening to me!” Dean says. “I need to go out there—”

“Now that everyone’s here,” Ion says loudly. “Castiel, your fiancé is missing.”

“I can see that,” Castiel says.

“No, he’s missing from the building,” Ion says irritably. “He’s gone. No one knows where he is.”

That information takes a while to sink in, as it has to work through the many layers of Castiel’s half-awake indifference. Ion is looking at him expectantly, as is Rachel, who is biting her lip. Naomi is not, for she’s too busy crossing her arms and frowning at the wall. Some sort reaction is expected here.

“Are you asking me if I know where he is?” Castiel asks.

“No, we’re not…” Ion pauses. “ _Do_ you know where he is?”

“No,” Castiel says.

“I can find him!” Dean exclaims. “He’s my brother, I know where he goes, I know how he thinks.”

“Obviously not as well as you’d thought,” John murmurs.

“We need to proceed delicately,” Mary says. “We can’t let it get out that he’s missing. I second that Dean be the one to search for him.”

“Why?” Ion says skeptically. “Especially when it’s likely he’s the one who made Sam’s exit happen?”

“No, I didn’t!” Dean protests.

“You’re his chaperone, you’re with him all the time,” Ion points out. “The only way he could’ve escaped would be if you helped him.”

“Oh, so he ‘escaped’ now? Interesting choice of words, man.”

“Someone else could’ve helped him,” Mary says. “Dean, what do you know? _Dean_.”

Dean covers a hand over his face. “I think there was a girl.”

There’s a mild explosion of noise. Castiel can’t muster up much emotion beyond vague amusement that the Winchesters argue like regular people. Well, Castiel had assumed they do because they’re human beings et cetera, but it’s interesting to witness it firsthand. The three of them talking to as well as over each other, Mary demanding answers, John theorizing out loud what Sam’s doing at this moment, and Dean swearing that he’s never met said girl and there might not even be a girl and he would’ve totally told his parents if he knew anything concrete.

“Okay, yes, this is my fault,” Dean says. “So let me make up for it, let me bring him back.”

“No,” Ion says. “Dean is not to be trusted.”

“The _hell_ you say?” John says. “My son—”

“Don’t get us wrong, we have the utmost respect for you and your wife,” Ion says quickly. “But your son is obviously sabotaging this marriage.”

“What?” Dean yelps. “I— _what_.”

“He seduced Castiel,” Ion says. “When that failed to force Castiel’s hand or stall the proceedings, he changed tactics and helped Sam get away.”

Castiel’s first thought is: Ion’s just guessing. Ion doesn’t _know_ , because if he knew for certain then he and Naomi would’ve confronted Castiel about it first. They would’ve hurled a bevy of new threats upon him and drawn some complicated scheme to ensure that all the evidence is erased and Castiel would never _ever_ be able to pull off such a stunt again.

“I did not seduce him!” Dean yells. “He seduced _me_!”

Castiel closes his eyes and sighs.

“When did this happen?” Mary demands.

“Even worse,” Ion exclaims, “by sleeping with Castiel first he preemptively tainted the marriage with Sam by forcing Castiel to commit incest by it!”

“Just before we got here,” Dean says. “I didn’t know who he was, swear to god, I was just hanging out in a bar and there he was — hey, that’s not incest.”

“It is by _our_ law,” Ion says.

“Was it _Benny’s_ bar?” John asks.

“Priorities, dear,” Mary says.

“Didn’t Gabriel petition to have that law repealed?” Rachel says.

“It’s not my fault,” Dean insists desperately. “It was his idea!”

“Hah!” Ion laughs. “You expect us to believe that it was coincidence? That of all the people Castiel could’ve met, it was sheer dumb luck that made it be you?”

“Did you miss the part where I said that it was his idea?”

“Dean’s correct,” Castiel says. “It was my fault. I was the one soliciting sex.” Ion and the Winchesters all turn to stare at him, and Castiel shrugs. He knows he’s probably giving off the impression that he is calm. He doesn’t feel calm per se, but he doesn’t feel panicked, shocked or betrayed either. It’s just… _oh,_ this is out, now he can move on.

Mary shakes her head in disbelief, one hand clamped firmly on Dean’s shoulder. “Is there anything else you want to tell the class, Dean?”

“No, ma’am,” Dean says in a small voice.

“This is the story of what happened,” Naomi says, the first she’s spoken since Castiel entered the room. She unfolds herself from her chair to address her audience, much the same way that someone else might assemble a rifle. “Castiel and Dean knew each other from before. They met as young men, fell into a summer affair that neither thought had any future, and parted ways amicably. Years later Castiel started marriage negotiations with the House of Winchester, initially with Sam, only to discover that his long-lost beau is none other than Sam’s brother. Sam willingly steps aside, allowing his betrothed and his brother to be reunited.”

The room is silent as they process this. Dean’s face is performing some really interesting calisthenics.

Castiel raises his hand. “How can we have had a summer affair when Dean’s never travelled outside the Republic?”

“ _That’s_ your comment, Cas?” Dean says shrilly. “Really?”

“It did jump out at me, yes.”

“People will eat that story up,” Naomi says. “The press will adore it, the people more so. Don’t you agree?”

“Dean is not marrying Castiel,” Mary says. “The arrangement is for Sam.”

“One continental prospect is the same as another,” Naomi says. “Sam has made his feelings clear about the situation, and shown us just how much respect he accords his fiancé. The fiction I’ve just described paints Sam as a gentleman and a hero, which is more than he’s done for himself.”

Dean stands up. “Hey, now—”

“We knew something like this would happen,” John says. “Sam’s always had his own mind.”

“No, Sam wouldn’t be so reckless,” Mary says. “Perhaps he just needed his own space to process this. He could just as easily be back in a few hours, thinking we wouldn’t notice.”

“That is your belief?” Naomi says.

“If he went of his own free will he would’ve left a message,” Mary says sharply. “We need to find it, or consider that it wasn’t by his choice.”

“You have faith in your son, which I understand,” Naomi says. “But His Highness will not be pleased when he hears of this. I can delay a day or two at most, after which the doors will be closed. So I suggest you find him, or you start your alterations on the wedding suit.”

Well, this is certainly familiar – Naomi dictating how things will proceed, reminding Castiel just how acutely isolated he is. Before him is the future, and he has no idea what it will look like. Same old, same old, then.

Power to Sam, though, if he did run away. At least _one_ of them had the impudence to do it.

“You will attend to this,” Naomi says. “I take my leave. Rachel, see that Castiel is returned to his chambers. Ion, to me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ion says.

Castiel and Rachel leave the room to the noise of the Winchesters erupting in furious discussion, may they have all the luck as is available to them.

With Rachel holding on to his arm, Castiel falls into the half-daze nearing sleep over the walk back, only jolting awake when Rachel pokes his arm. “What?” he starts. They’ve reached the door leading to chambers, but for some reason Dean has followed them. “What?” he says again.

“This floor is private for Castiel’s use,” Rachel hisses.

“Five minutes,” Dean says. “C’mon, you know this is important.”

Rachel exhales through her teeth. “Five minutes, leave the door open, _no touching_.”

“Oh, fu—” Dean censors himself in time, restricting himself to glaring at Rachel as she disappears behind the door. “Okay, Cas, I gotta know, did Sam say anything to you? Anything that can give me a hint where he went?”

Castiel tries to concentrate. “Nothing immediately comes to mind.”

“Come on, man, there’s gotta be something.”

“Sam’s intelligent,” Castiel says. “He wouldn’t have let something slip to me, of all people. If _you_ didn’t see it coming, who else would?”

Dean makes a face. “You wanna show a little concern there, buddy?”

“I’m fairly certain you’re showing enough concern for the both of us.”

“Hey, I’m _not_ marrying you,” Dean snaps.

“All right.”

“I’m so not shitting around, Cas, I am _not marrying you_ ,” Dean insists. “I have my own responsibilities, I got people counting on me to be there for them. Sam? Now Sam was actually trained for this. _Sam_ is the smart one, _Sam_ is the one who can handle Michael and – and all that politics business.”

This, Castiel understands. “You’re not a spare tire,” he says softly. “I know.”

Dean does thing again, hesitating and unsure as though he’d braced himself for a right hook and received something else. “It wasn’t you who told them, was it?” he says.

“No,” Castiel says. “There was no reason to bring it up, especially when the consequences would’ve affected the reputation of others instead of just my own. The only possible reason of interest to me would’ve been to see Naomi’s reaction.”

Dean snorts. “Was it all you’d dreamed of?”

“No,” Castiel says sadly. “It was nothing at all like what I thought it would be.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I’m really tired, Dean.” Castiel plucks at his sleep shirt self-consciously. “Good luck finding Sam. I hope he’s all right.”

“Me, too.” Dean curses under his breath. “And I will find him.”

“If anyone can,” Castiel agrees.

“’Cause I’m not marrying you.”

“You said that already.”

“Cause it would be fucking weird.”

Castiel blinks at him slowly, waiting for whatever moment this is to pass so he can get back to bed, but Dean is still standing there, still glaring at him for reasons that are beyond anyone’s understanding. “I really want to go back to sleep, Dean. You’re more interesting when I’m fully awake. I’m going now.” He absent-mindedly pats Dean on the arm, and bangs his toes against the door when he misses the doorknob.

“Dude,” Dean says, reaching over to pull the door wider for him. “Nice jammies, by the way.”

Castiel murmurs a thank you and slips in, where he waves at a waiting Rachel to stand down.

It’s a good thing that the bed is still warm when Castiel crawls into it. He pulls the covers up to his chin and closes his eyes, grateful for the small pleasures of the world.

Surely everything will make more sense in the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Sexual content** : Riding, barebacking. Actually, from here on out it's all barebacking.

Frenetic energy has filled the building, and for once Castiel is not the one responsible for it.

In fact, for the past few days Castiel has been barely bossed around at all, because Naomi is too busy putting mitigation plan upon mitigation plan in action to pay him any mind. Here Castiel concedes to Naomi’s skill at improvisation, and he is similarly impressed that the Republic’s Council and Winchesters have managed to keep up.

It’s time Castiel to come back into play, though, which is why he’s currently decked up in his third best suit and sitting in a comfortable chair awaiting the order to sit up and speak.

The room they’re in isn’t small, but it feels tiny thanks to various people bustling around – technicians fixing the lights and cameras, make-up artists checking their work, Naomi and crew leading a discussion of utmost importance (that doesn’t require Castiel’s involvement), et cetera. The crown jewel of today’s presentation is a small raised dais, behind which they’ve draped banners of Michael’s coat of arms and that of the House of Winchester.

There are two chairs on the dais and Castiel is, of course, sitting in one of them. The other chair should be similarly occupied but Dean is currently standing at near-attention while Mary adjusts his dress jacket. If the situation were different Castiel might think the sight of a grown man being spruced up by his mother amusing. Dean bears her attention well, too, barely even flinching when Mary reaches up to fix the hair by his ears.

But Dean’s indifference to his mother is due to the fact that he’s too busy staring a hole at the door. Every so often said door opens to allow staff in or out, but there’s no messenger, no sudden news that Sam has been found.

“Stop doing that,” Mary says quietly.

“You know I—”

“Dean.” Mary snaps his collar, and Dean straightens up. “You need to focus on _your_ job, and you need to trust me to do mine. Can you do that?”

Dean’s expression is pinched, but he nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

Castiel takes a deep breath, and does not respond when Dean takes the chair next to him. They haven’t seen much of each other since the announcement of Sam’s flight, which is understandable – Dean’s been trying to find his brother, while Castiel has had little to do but sit in his rooms and read. The last time Castiel saw Dean, he’d been red-faced from yelling at a guard and hadn’t been in the mood to chat.

So right now Castiel has no idea what volatile direction Dean may veer off into next. The presence of cameras and other people are not as reassuring as they could be.

Basically, the situation changes today.

Castiel sits as motionless as he can, his early years of training paying off yet again. Beside him Dean is fidgeting with his cuffs, and crossing and uncrossing his ankles. Castiel doesn’t tell him to cut it out.

A slightly frazzled man with glasses and a notebook breaks free from Naomi’s briefing, approaching the dais before freezing, double-backing, then bowing quickly before resuming his approach. “Sirs,” he says.

“Camera’s not on yet, Chuck,” Dean says.

“ _Sirs_ ,” the man says again, almost desperately. “I’m Chuck Shurley with the PR team, I’ll be guiding your, uh, interview today. Just relax and follow my lead, we’ll get as much footage as we can and edit it as necessary.”

“Make sure to get my good side,” Dean says.

Chuck turns to Castiel imploringly. “Your Lordship?”

“Yes, I’m ready,” Castiel says. “You may proceed.” Dean snorts, and Castiel ignores him.

This is small potatoes. This is a highly controlled environment, for goodness sake – Naomi in one corner, Mary in the other, all the rest of the staff no doubt hand-picked and bound to non-disclosure contracts. If things had proceeded as originally planned then there would’ve been an army of press in here with their microphones and questions.

Instead there’s only one camera today, Chuck sitting next to it as he goes through his notes. They haven’t started yet, so Kevin rushes up to Dean’s side, whispering, “You sure you don’t need a relaxant?”

“Fuck off,” Dean whispers back. “I mean that in the most grateful way possible, Kev.”

“ _Gee_ ,” Kevin mutters. He quickly scampers off the dais, taking up his position behind Chuck.

“Let’s start rolling, please,” Chuck announces. There’s a flurry of activity around them, the additional lights switched on and the sound tech bringing his boom forward. Chuck adjusts his spectacles, then looks up at Castiel and Dean with a beatific smile. “It’s been an exciting couple of weeks, huh? How are you guys feeling?”

“A little overwhelmed, but… good, thank you,” Castiel says.

“It’s been a while since you’ve visited the Republic, isn’t it?” Chuck says.

“Yes, indeed,” Castiel says. “I haven’t had the chance to set foot here for some years, unfortunately.”

“And the last time you came here was quite eventful,” Chuck says.

Next to him Kevin has the placards open. They are useful but not necessary. The story (the _lie_ ) may be new, but Castiel has been doing this for a long time.

“Yes,” Castiel says. “Yes, it was. Though I can’t regret this turn of events, as it has brought Dean back into my life. Second chances can be found in the strangest of places, under the strangest of circumstances.”

“It must’ve been a shock to everyone, I’m sure.” Chuck’s smile is kind. “How is the royal family dealing with this huge twist?”

“His Highness is very supportive,” Castiel replies. “Though I must beg your pardon and confess that certain other members of my household were most… scandalized by this turn of events.”

Chuck laughs. “I’m sure.”

“But His Highness is determined that they will make accommodations for Dean, and his new role as a member of the family.” Castiel turns on automatic, ready to exchange a glance with his new fiancé, only to be met with a blank face. Dean isn’t even looking at him. He isn’t even looking at the camera. “Um.”

Dean’s eyes are glazed over, his mouth open a little. Is this stage fright? No one told Castiel that Dean has stage fright.

“Sir, what are you doing?” Chuck says.

“Dean?” Castiel says.

“Cut, cut, cut,” Chuck says, snapping his fingers. “We can’t work with this. Dean, you can’t expect your – his Lordship to pick up the slack for you.”

Dean’s mouth works silently. That is Castiel’s cue to grab Dean’s arm and stand up, pulling firmly until Dean gets the hint and drags himself up onto his feet. “Give us a few minutes.”

“I think it’ll take more than a few minutes,” Kevin says.

“Reset the lights,” Castiel says. “Is it possible to do the photos first?”

Chuck sighs and rubs his forehead. “Yeah, we can try that.”

It takes another strong tug to get Dean to walk with him to an uninhabited corner of the room, away from the camera and lights and Chuck’s explosion of orders and Naomi’s crossed arms of imminent threats. “Dean.”

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean returns, though Cas is too relieved to hear Dean speak to care about his mocking tone. “Quit pulling, I’m fine.”

“Your mother looks like she wishes to intervene, would you prefer that? No? Tell me what just happened.”

Dean exhales, arms tight against his body. Frustration pours off of him in waves, and Castiel has the suspicion that if they didn’t have this particular audience, and if Dean weren’t wearing a brand new suit, he’d be flailing around the room right about now, expressing his feelings through wild gesticulations and rude words where necessary.

“Do you need help with the script?” Castiel asks.

“It’s not just about the script.” Dean glances over at the others. Although no one seems to be watching them, it’s wise to keep their voices down, which he does. “It’s one thing to say the words, Cas, but I – I forgot about the camera. I forgot that I have to look at you like – like –”

“Dean, _you’re_ the one who missed rehearsals. We could’ve worked it out then but—”

“I was busy looking for Sam.”

“—and your mother promised that you’d be prepared in time. Now the cameras are here but you’re not ready. What do you expect to do now?”

“Hey you don’t get to nag on me _yet_ , Cas.”

“Are you having a panic attack right now, Dean?” Castiel asks carefully.

“I’ve wrestled hydra with my bare hands, buddy, I do _not_ panic. This is nothing, this is _nothing_.” Dean shakes his head as though to clear it. “Shut up. I know what I’m doing. I can do this.” He takes a deep breath, eyes shut briefly as he presumably does some sort of mental exercise to calm himself.

Castiel waits patiently, content to sit out Dean’s gathering of thoughts. Maybe he’d made a mistake by suggesting he’d had a panic attack.

Unlike Sam, Naomi didn’t have a dossier on Dean on hand once he’d been shoved into the role vacated by his brother. So what Castiel’s learned about Dean from the official paperwork is what Dean _isn’t_. Dean isn’t a scholar, isn’t a Man of Letters, isn’t learned in the arts of statecraft. The majority of what Castiel _does_ know about Dean he learned the normal way, the more interesting way.

“I know what I’m doing,” Dean insists. “We’re freaking childhood sweethearts, and we still have feelings for each other after all these years, and I get to marry you. I’m fucking ecstatic.”

Castiel mumbles under his breath.

“What?” Dean snaps.

“Teenagers,” Castiel says. “We were teenagers, not children.”

“What, don’t tell me you don’t wanna marry me?” Dean’s smirk is a pale imitation of his usual. “I’m awesome.”

“Dean,” Castiel says gently. He reaches for Dean’s wrist, squeezing gently when Dean doesn’t jump or pull away. “After the honeymoon you’ll be free to search for Sam to your heart’s content. I wouldn’t expect any less of you, and you don’t need to pretend in front of me. I am not your enemy.”

That seems to bring Dean up short. He looks away to the wall, then to Castiel’s hand on his sleeve as he processes Castiel’s best attempt at trying to be comforting. “I know you’re not my enemy, Cas. I’m just trying to stay focused.”

“All right. Did you find anything else, besides the letter Sam sent?”

“No,” Dean says. “Don’t matter, Mom will keep looking. This is what _I_ gotta do now, right? This is my job and I’ll do it. Geez, stop looking at me like that. It’s that stupid face of yours that got me into trouble in the first place.”

“This is the only face I have.”

“Yeah and it’s a stupid face,” Dean mutters.

Castiel takes the non-malicious insult for the frustrated lashing out that it is, and peers at Dean hopefully. “Do you feel better?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess.” The corners of Dean’s mouth quirk a little. It’s not a happy smile, not by a long shot, but it’s softer than any look Dean’s granted him since they’d met each other again in this wretched building. “Nice pep talk, Cas. Could’ve used a little more zest, but not bad.”

“I’m not sure what I said to help,” Castiel says. “What exactly were you having trouble with?”

“It just got weird for a moment,” Dean says with shrug. “I mean, people I _know_ are gonna be watching this, and I gotta make ‘em believe that I… that _we_ … Don’t get me wrong, Cas, you’re an okay guy, but this isn’t…”

 _Real_ , Castiel thinks is what he meant to say.

 _“_ I understand. Let me tell you a secret, Dean.” Dean cocks his head curiously, and Castiel leans in to whisper, “It’s okay to be unhappy about this.”

Dean inhales sharply. It should be an obvious statement but people don’t always say the obvious, especially not in situations like this where duty has compelled Dean to stand before others and perform. Castiel sometimes wishes that someone told him, ages ago, that it was okay to be unhappy with Michael’s rules.

It hasn’t escaped Castiel’s notice that Dean hasn’t said that he can’t do this. Dean’s devotion is admirable in a way; he will not serve his Council but he will serve his family, and by this route at least one of them will be going into this marriage for something they believe in.

“You really shouldn’t say things like that, Cas,” Dean says, though there’s an amused lilt in the rebuke. “I’ve heard it’s treasonous.”

“Shall we return now?”

“Yeah.” Dean nods. “Let’s do this. Oh. Um, you can let go of me now.”

Castiel looks down at where they’re holding onto each other. Castiel may have reached for Dean first, but somewhere in the middle of that conversation Dean reached back and they’d just kept on reaching, and now Dean’s left thigh is pressing a hot line against Castiel’s right. Castiel would swear upon threat of death that it hadn’t been on purpose, and he definitely hadn’t been thinking about kissing Dean. At all. Not even when his eyes had gone all stubborn and conflicted.

“You could let go of me first,” Castiel says quickly, drawing his arms away while Dean huffs under his breath in amusement. “Be quiet.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Dean says.

It doesn’t make Castiel feel any better when he turns around and sees that Chuck and his staff pointedly _not_ looking at them. “Are you ready for us?” Castiel calls out.

“Hey, I’m happy to wait,” their photographer says amiably.

“Pamela,” Chuck says with a sigh. “Yes, please, stand in the spotlight, would you?”

They return to the now chair-free dais, where various people to putter around them, fixing their make-up and clothes. Castiel doesn’t jump when one of the assistants gently nudges him against Dean’s side, pressing him once against the wall of muscle and strength that had once bent Castiel over a bed and fucked him to orgasm.

Castiel shakes his head quickly. He wasn’t this filthy-minded before, damn Dean and his distracting nature.

In a few days Castiel’s going to be married to that distracting nature.

“Parade rest, your Lordships?” Pamela says, raising a hand. “Good. Dean – turn two degrees to your left? Yeah, good. Chins up, look at the camera, thank you.”

This means they’re side by side but at a slight angle to each other, and Castiel can see Dean’s shoulder at the corner of his eye. Not that Castiel’s supposed to look at him, he’s supposed to look at the camera, which he is. Castiel counts down the rapid clicks and focuses on breathing.

“Lord Castiel—” Pamela says.

“Just Castiel, please,” he replies.

“Can you turn your head a little – just your head, keep your shoulders level. Follow my finger, yes, perfect.”

A few more slightly different positions follow, and Castiel jolts a little when Pamela asks them to look at each other. She even steps forward to fix their posture, making sure the emblems of their jacket are visible and adjusting their hands to _almost_ but not quite touch.

Lips barely moving, Dean whispers, “If you pop a boner I’m gonna knee you in it.”

Castiel inhales sharply, clamping his mouth shut to stop himself from saying something rude when Dean’s eyes light up with mirth. After checking that the camera hasn’t started again, Castiel quickly whispers back, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Dean counters by twitching his eyes and pursing his lips in playful mockery, as though his goal is to make Castiel laugh. He might even succeed if Castiel weren’t an expert at stoicism – Anna said it would be a useful skill, and it has been. For some reason Castiel’s implacable poise seems to amuse Dean even more, and he responds with a solemn little frown of his own – he’s _imitating_ Castiel.

This is nothing at all like being engaged to Sam, and Castiel is able acknowledge to himself that it isn’t solely the _lights_ that have his face warming up. It’s funny, for if he’d been told a few weeks ago that he’d one day be disappointed to see that someone (Dean) has been forced to wear make-up that hides their freckles, Castiel would have stared at the commenter until they stopped offending his sensibilities.

He and Dean need to redefine their boundaries. Being attracted to each other makes it more complicated, not less.

“Gentlemen!” Pamela says loudly. “Might wanna tone it down a little.”

Castiel turns and frowns her. “Tone what down?”

“Yeah,” Dean drawls, “we’re just standing here like you said.”

Pamela raises an eyebrow at them. She glances over at Kevin, who just shrugs helplessly at her. “Okay then, let’s try something else.”

They work through another handful of poses before Pamela declares the session done, and by then Castiel has figured out what he has to say.

He waits until Pamela has taken her equipment away and Chuck’s stepped forward to prep his own. Castiel draws close to Dean’s side and says, “I think we could be friends.” The words tumble out of his mouth in a quick rush, and he ignores Dean’s jolt of surprise. “Wouldn’t it be much better if we were? I had a thought it might be possible, before.”

The edges of Dean’s eye crinkle when he’s amused. “You mean when you were just Manny, a weirdo in a bar?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “And you were just… Dean.”

It would be wonderful if they could be friends. Castiel had hoped for the same with Sam, but with Dean he already knows that it can be done. There had been an easy accord with them that first night together, and although nothing will ever be that easy between them ever again – what with their being insignificant pieces in a larger game of trade routes and properties and military strength – they can find strength standing together.

“Just friends?” Dean asks.

“Yes.” Castiel smiles when Dean relaxes with relief. “You know I don’t expect…”

“I know.” Dean nods. “S’just great to hear you say it. I mean, when it was you and Sam the lines were pretty clear, but you and me are… “

“Yes, our situation is different. There’s no point in pretending it isn’t.”

“And I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

Castiel barks a startled laugh. “Oh, Dean, that’s… kind of you.” Dean pouts a little, and Castiel shoves at him gently. “I know you have a life of your own. Honestly.”

“Man, you’re just…” This time Dean’s smile is one that shows teeth. “You’re one smart cookie, Cas.”

“See?” Castiel replies. “All you need to do is turn that charm of yours on, everything will be fine.”

“With your poker face and my charm we can rule the world?”

“Yes. And remember what you’re doing this for. Hold on to that.”

Dean stares at him for a moment, and Castiel thinks that the new light in Dean’s eyes may be that of recognition and appreciation. They can do this if they watch out for each other, and be mindful of the dangers the other cannot see. Dean is no ingénue, and for that Castiel is grateful.

Dean turns to Chuck. “Hey, you ready yet? Time’s a-wasting, let’s get on it.”

Castiel toes do not curl at the low, confident rumble in Dean’s voice.

* * *

Then there’s the final stretch.

Dean is taken away for a crash course that Naomi apparently doesn’t trust Castiel to be involved in at all for she cuts them off from each other entirely, leaving Rachel as Castiel’s only source of news of Dean’s training. Perhaps Naomi fears that Castiel will influence Dean, or the other way around – one Winchester fleeing the scene of the crime is bad enough.

Before Castiel knows it he’s reached the morning where breakfast refuses to stay settled in his stomach, and Rachel is opening to the door his rooms and beckoning to him with a soft, “It’s time, sir.”

The wedding is in one of the Republic’s modern temples, a short drive away from the villa. There are guards, of course, along with the press and interested members of the general public flocking around the building, but Castiel barely notices all of that through the disconnected haze that has settled in his brain since the moment he woke up. It’s a good thing Rachel has a good grip on Castiel’s robe, leading him up private staircases and through hallways until they reach the closed doors of the grand hall.

Rachel stands in front of Castiel for some last-minute adjustments of his robe, and then, after a quick encouraging smile, bows respectfully. “It is an honor,” she says.

In front of Castiel, the two ushers open the double doors that lead into the awe-inspiring hush of the packed grand hall.

Castiel can’t say that he’d _never_ thought about marriage before. He’d learned pretty quickly about the synonymous nature of political marriages and tribal alliances, the buying and selling of wardships, the illusion of choice in a world where Michael is God’s anointed on Earth. The only measure of Castiel’s comfort had been the knowledge that he isn’t valuable as a marriage pawn, so none of the peers of the realm would so much as look twice at him. Of course, that lack of value now means that Castiel can be tossed into this match with little loss to the Crown. Ah, irony.

In the times when Castiel _did_ think he might have a wedding (whether by order or by choice) he’d imagined it would take place in one of the kingdom's ancient temples , with its tall ceilings and elaborate murals depicting the presence of the divine in their everyday lives.

 _This_ temple has a tall ceiling, but there are no murals. Instead there are clean, off-white surfaces and geometric shapes in the pillars and banisters and archways. There’s also a thick red carpet that tickles Castiel’s feet when Rachel helps take his slippers off.

As this is Dean’s temple, he’s standing at the altar with the cleric waiting for Castiel. His back is to him, so Castiel focuses on that as he starts walking, ignoring the pews full of family and onlookers and other miscellaneous people from the Kingdom and continent alike. A wedding is a wedding is just another rite to be performed, and Castiel can do this.

There is music somewhere. Someone playing an organ? Castiel barely registers it, for he is too busy making sure he doesn’t trip on his robe on the way to Dean.

Is it terrible that Castiel’s grateful that it’s Dean he’s getting married to? Dean’s still an unknown quantity but he’s less a stranger than Sam or anyone else the Council might have thrown at him. Is it terrible that Castiel can look into Dean’s face and be relieved by it?

The answer is – _yes_ , it is terrible, for once Castiel has drawn level with the altar he can see that Dean’s face is pale and his breath short. Oh, Dean’s hiding it well, and it helps that his back is to the audience, but it’s plain to see that Dean’s mentally checked out.

A wedding is not just a ritual.

Castiel’s throat clicks with the words he’s not supposed to say yet. The cleric has to speak first, which he does, opening the proceedings with the speech of welcoming and blessing. Castiel can merely stand there uselessly, gazing into the face of man he’s about to marry and wait.

Dean’s eyes slowly focus. At first he’s surprised to see Castiel, and then confused.

Times like these, a poker face doesn’t help. Castiel wants Dean to know that he understands, that he’s worried for him.

The cleric is still talking, now going through the ritual proper in Enochian.

Slowly, almost as slowly as the cleric’s chanting, Dean’s eyes clear. Castiel dare not look away lest the effect wear off and take Dean’s lucidity with it. The fact remains that he doesn’t know Dean well enough to read him, or offer comfort. Castiel tries a tentative smile – Dean’s smiles have, after all, done wonders in making Castiel feel better.

Dean’s mouth twitches, the lines around his lips relaxing, and Castiel feels his own smile widening with relief.

Something passes between them right then. Some kind of wordless secret – not a _sordid_ secret, not the lie of the love story that Naomi’s cooked up for them. This is an acknowledgement of each other, and of the true shared role they’re taking as they stand here before the altar. It’s comforting, in the way that it’s (sometimes) comforting to know that someone else sees a truth of who you are. Dean is not alone, and neither is Castiel.

“This binding hold you both,” the cleric says.

They raise their left hands, and the cleric helps them draw back their sleeves until their forearms are bared. Dean’s palm is clammy when Castiel clasps it, but that’s easily ignorable. Castiel bows his head while the cleric winds the cloth around their wrists and up their arms.

“Do you accept, Dean of Winchester?” the cleric asks.

“I do,” Dean says.

Then it’s Castiel’s turn, and his voice is only a little hoarse on his answering, “I do.”

Castiel and Dean pull apart together, the rip of the binding cloth absurdly loud in the anticipatory silence of the grand hall. Just below Dean and Castiel’s left wrists the beautiful calligraphy glows briefly – his and Dean’s names in the Enochian alphabet, intertwined with the binding vow – before settling into the dark ink of the marriage tattoo.

“You may kiss,” the cleric says.

Dean hesitates, but he recovers so smoothly that Castiel doubts anyone not two feet in front of him would notice. They lean towards each other, Castiel taking hold of Dean’s forearm for balance, and then press their mouths together quickly. The kiss is chaste and dry, and then they’re pulling apart again, standing side by side to listen to the cleric’s speech on their duties to each other.

It is done, then.

Castiel belatedly realizes he’s still holding on to Dean’s arm, but seeing as Dean doesn’t shake him off, he figures he might as well leave it there.

* * *

The reception afterward is a mass of noise and handshakes and thanking people he doesn’t know. It’s only superficially similar to Michael’s court, for the Republic is less formal and people more inclined to speak to them directly, which means that Rachel and Kevin have to shadow them every step of the way to ensure that they nod and smile and don’t accidentally insult someone. The first chance Castiel has to _properly_ exhale is after they’ve excused themselves and retreated to the wedding suite.

Dean seems to feel the same way as Castiel, because as soon as the door is locked behind them he lumbers over to the middle of the sitting area, sheds his thousand-something-dollar jacket to the floor and yells, “Oh my _God_!”

“Are you sure you don’t want them to send some leftovers up?” Castiel asks. “You didn’t eat much.”

“Hell if there’s good eating out of _wedding_ food, Cas.” Dean plants his feet flat on the ground and does some quick stretches, groaning when there’s an audible crick in his waist. “I did not know that cheekbones can hurt. My cheekbones _hurt_.”

“Really? I feel fine.”

“Damn it. You’re the cool aloof one and I’m the smiley one? _Shit._ ” Dean continues his stretches while Castiel pokes at the light switches and air-conditioning. “When we go to Michael’s court I don’t have to do anything, right? You can – you’ll lead?”

“Of course,” Castiel says. “But we still have time to prepare for that.”

“Good, good.” Dean perks up suddenly. “Painted whore gets dibs on the shower!”

“Am I not wearing…” Castiel trails off, for Dean’s already dashed off into the bedroom, the bathroom door slamming shut soon after. “…make-up as well?”

The wedding suite is the villa’s penthouse, and Castiel wonders if that is its real function or if it’d been converted for the occasion. It’s grand like everything else for their use here is grand, the first class accommodations inclusive of a large television set spanning the wall, a well-stocked bar with a gigantic fruit basket that Castiel doubts is of interest to Dean, and the bedroom.

Their wedding night bedroom, to be exact. There are no doors separating said bedroom from the sitting area, and Castiel approaches it with trepidation.

The bed is – well, it doesn’t disappoint? It’s a monstrous four-poster island, which is expected, but Castiel feels a little sick at the curtains that have been emblazoned with Michael’s coat of arms.

When Dean comes out of the bathroom wrapped in a robe, Castiel has climbed up onto the bedframe and succeeded in cutting down the front curtains and cross banner. He only needs to take down the back of the canopy to make the bed sleep-worthy, and he is determined to do it.

“Isn’t that, like, illegal?” Dean says. “Defacing the King’s property?”

“Your new clothes should be in the wardrobe.” Castiel rips down another swath of cloth, grunting with satisfaction when it falls. “Go and amuse yourself.”

Dean snorts, but he ambles over to the wardrobe and opens it. “How do I know which ones are yours and which are mine?”

“There will be tags.”

“You guys think of everything, don’t ya?”

The bed is large enough that they should be able to share it with plenty of space between them. Castiel certainly doesn’t mind sleeping next to Dean, though if Dean turns has reservations he’ll be more than happy to negotiate some other kind of arrangement.

“The hell is this?” Dean bleats.

Castiel squints at the flimsy purple thing that Dean is holding up with the tips of his fingers. “Lingerie.”

Dean stares at it. “And _who_ is supposed to wear this?”

Castiel jumps down from the bed and marches towards Dean, where he checks the waistline of the mostly see-through negligee. “Me, it appears. Do you not have lingerie here?”

“I…” Dean carefully turns around and hangs it back up. “I am not going to answer that question. I am going to get a drink instead, because that’ll be a better use of my time. Happy vandalizing, Cas.”

“Have you really never seen lingerie before?” Castiel asks. “I’m sure there’s a pair for you if you wish to try—”

“Getting a drink!” Dean yells, just as he disappears through the doorway.

“Don’t touch the wine in the bucket, it’s an aphrodisiac!” Castiel calls out at him. He laughs under his breath at Dean’s muffled curse.

It’s Castiel’s turn to use the bathroom now, and he can be forgiven for taking his time after such an exhausting day.

That went well, he has to admit. Michael only sent a handful of senior representatives to carry his banner, and they’d all been unfailingly polite to Dean. Even Lord Zachariah bowed to Dean, to Castiel’s surprise, though he figures they’d all been briefed ( _warned_ ) beforehand by Naomi to be on their best behavior and take Castiel’s change of spouse in stride. Though goodness knows what Michael _really_ thinks about the whole affair. Castiel may learn that soon enough.

The shower does wonders for Castiel’s temperament, washing away the grime and filth he’d amassed and leaving him satisfyingly clean. There are some comfortable non-sexy sleeping clothes in the wardrobe as well, which Castiel puts on before padding out from the bedroom to see what damage Dean’s inflicted on himself.

The bar has been ransacked, though Dean has wisely left the wedding wine untouched. The television is off, the curtains drawn tight, and Castiel’s husband in sitting on the couch with a small city of bottles on the table in front of him.

“Beer?” Castiel says. “You’re drinking beer?”

“It’s my wedding and I’ll drink beer if I want to,” Dean says stubbornly. He seems to pause at that, staring down at his bare feet where they’re digging into the carpet. “This is my wedding night.”

Castiel joins him on the couch, and accepts the bottle that Dean shoves at him. “Yes.”

One of the bottles on the table is already empty, but Castiel admits that Dean should be allowed to drink his comfort tonight, if that’s what he needs. Castiel removes the cap of his own bottle and gives it a try, surprised to find that it’s a local brew not unlike the ones that he’d tried on his night of barhopping. Dean might have had these specially ordered for him.

They drink for a while in silence, Castiel too tired to think too much about anything, while Dean toys with the sleeves of his robe and shuffles his feet across the carpet like a restless child.

“It’s my _wedding_ night,” Dean says again, more emphatically this time. “Not that I was thinking about getting married, but I might’ve, one day. I might’ve! _You_ might’ve. You could’ve found someone, and now you can’t. We can’t. This sucks, Cas.”

Castiel puts his now-empty bottle on the table, pushing it into a line with its brethren.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Dean says quickly, “I’m – I’m happy to do it ‘cause I don’t want anyone to get into trouble. Mom has her reasons, and Sam is – Sam gets to be Sam, and I can’t hate on that. I can’t regret that.”

“That’s very nice of you, Dean.”

“Fuck that,” Dean says mildly. “I’m not nice, I’m a goddamn Ken doll: Political Edition. Did you see the papers this morning? I couldn’t even turn on the TV they were showing the same clips of us over and over again, like, is there _really_ nothing more important going on in the world right now? Who cares about the Wall, right? Who cares about the border disputes, right? Let’s all watch these douchebags get married instead.”

Dean has been steadily listing over during that little tirade, and at the end of it he tips over onto the floor, muscular legs splayed out in front of him. Castiel would comment on the comfort of his seating choice, but the carpet is indeed quite lush and soft. Also lush and soft is Dean’s still-damp hair, which Castiel reaches over and pets.

“I’m gonna be a terrible husband,” Dean declares.

“Don’t say that.”

“I’ll probably throw up on Michael first time I see him.”

“It’s true that you weren’t prepared for this, but view the bright side – you have duties that Sam doesn’t,” Castiel points out. “This means you will _have_ to be allowed to continue your service as a hunter, and you will be accorded far more freedom than Sam would’ve been.”

“You mean I’m not much more than arm candy?” Dean seems to think this over. “I can do arm candy.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “ _Arm candy_.”

“What, I totally am,” Dean says.

“Well, yes, considering I _seduced_ you.” Castiel gives him a pointed look when Dean just frowns up at him in confusion. “You told Naomi and the others that I seduced you, remember? My prowess is apparently so great that I was able to seduce the most dashing arm candy in the whole Republic.”

“Damn straight I’m the most dashing. You better treat me right, buddy.”

“Darling,” Castiel says. “I believe you should call me darling now.”

“The hell I’m calling you that,” Dean says. “ _Honey_.”

“Apple of my eye.” Castiel takes Dean’s quivering shoulders as encouragement. “Star of my skies and jewel of my… coffer?”

Dean stares at him for a moment, and then finally bursts out laughing. “This is my seductive husband, holy fucking _shit_ what is my life right now.”

“Are you taking back your assertion that I’m seductive?” Castiel says in mock outrage, batting Dean’s hands away when he tries to poke him in his ribs. Castiel’s only had what, two glasses of wine, plus some very mild beer? If he’s drunk on anything it’s the way that Dean can’t seem to stop laughing. “This is how I seduced you, with my clever words and my – my stupid face.”

“It is indeed a stupid face,” Dean agrees.

“By that account you must be stupider, because you were seduced by a stupid face.” Castiel is amazed by his own cleverness, especially when Dean sputters and grabs at him. Castiel laughs and lets himself be pulled off the couch, joining Dean on the floor in a heap. “Yes, that is it, foolish husband of mine. You are helpless before me, overcome by my prowess.”

“That makes no sense!” Dean exclaims.

“It makes perfect sense.”

Their laughter, which had been so loud, slowly fades away into awkward silence. It comes to Castiel’s attention that he’s practically sitting in Dean’s lap, legs draped across his thighs, and when did that happen? Dean’s on the floor, they’d been pushing at each other, Castiel must’ve rolled on top of him. Castiel really should be more concerned that he keeps being drawn towards Dean without realizing it. He should be equally concerned that Dean doesn’t seem to mind.

The moment drags on, the silence between them thick. Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.

Dean’s hands are resting around Castiel’s waist. He drums his fingers once, almost curiously. It catches Castiel’s breath.

Dean’s skin is clear, his freckles liberated from their concealer prison. Castiel runs a hand up Dean’s chest, letting it rest on the strong lines of his collarbones between the open V of his robe. Of interest is how Dean licks his lips at the touch, and how Castiel can no longer ignore the fact that Dean’s barely wearing anything beneath his robe.

Castiel could move off of Dean. Or he could drag a finger along Dean’s pulse point and watch the way his eyes dilate. Castiel opts for the second, because he is weak.

“Bad idea,” Dean says faintly. “Just friends, right?”

“No, no, see.” Castiel adjusts his hold on Dean’s very lovely, very well-defined shoulders. “We’re attracted to each other, there’s no use denying it. So we should get it out of our system or else we’ll be – it’ll be distracting during the honeymoon. Get it out of the way and we won’t think about it anymore.”

Dean’s eyes are luminous up close. “You’re a genius, Cas.” And he pulls Castiel firmly against his groin, against what’s definitely a half-hard cock.

Castiel gasps in shock, and that’s the last unfettered breath he gets before Dean’s leaning in and taking his mouth.

These are true kisses, _real_ kisses, the kisses that Castiel’s wanted and not supposed to want. Castiel feels no shame in pouring his hunger into every press and glide of their lips, because Dean is right there with him, groaning into his mouth and pushing a slick tongue against his teeth. This isn’t like the last illicit time they’d kissed (where Dean definitely kissed him first, Castiel’s not going to let that go) for they’re now _allowed_ to do it, and they have a whole floor of privacy and a whole bed to roll around in and premium supplies ready for their use.

“You have a stupid face,” Castiel says weakly against Dean’s mouth, his lips tender where Dean’s sucked on them.

“ _You_ have a stupid face.” Dean tugs Castiel’s sleep shirt up and over his head, and runs eager hands over Castiel’s bared torso. “Stupid pecs, stupid nipples, stupid neck.” He darts in, dragging a lewd tongue over said neck. “Knew you couldn’t be _just_ a scholar. The fuck kind of scholar is so goddamned ripped?”

“Don’t pretend you knew.” Castiel pulls the belt of Dean’s robe out of the way, and then yanks the folds open to reveal miles of wonderful skin. Dean arcs his back a little, pert nipples bared for the attention of Castiel’s fingers. “You would’ve stopped if you suspected who I was, that night.”

“And miss a chance to ride this?” Dean gasps when Castiel drags his fingers down his chest. “Yeah, right.”

“Plenty of scholarly people are fit,” Castiel protests. “It takes physical aptitude to be able to trek into the wilderness when pursuing research of—”

“Do me bare,” Dean says suddenly, derailing that line of thought. “You wanna?”

“Bare?”

“They cleared your bloodwork, too, right?” Dean gestures at his left shoulder, where there’s the small, new-ish scar of an injection. “If I let people jab me there’s gotta be something good out of it. But, uh, only if you want, of course, I’m cool if you don’t—”

“I want.” Castiel nods quickly. “I promise you, I want.”

“Oh thank God I need that cock of yours,” Dean exhales in a rush. He pushes at Castiel, scrambling to get up and off to somewhere more comfortable. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”

Castiel should be flattered by Dean’s interest in his penis, but he’s more caught on the implication that Dean’s been lusting after him as well. This shouldn’t be a surprise, because Dean _did_ kiss him that time that he shouldn’t have, but it’s still thrilling to know that Castiel hasn’t been perverse all by his lonesome.

If this is their chance to get this craving out of their system, they had better make it a good one – judging by their mutual hunger for each other, there is an excellent chance they will succeed. They kiss and grab at each other all the way the bedroom, the pair of them weaving and spinning and bumping into the furniture as they go. Thank goodness Castiel removed the curtains from the bed earlier, because now they get to paw at each other without Michael’s heraldic eye watching over them.

“Now you stay down there,” Dean says firmly, once he has Castiel flat on his back on the bed. “I’d like to try to come on that luscious dick of yours, capisce?”

“How can a dick be luscious?”

“When it’s fat and ramming up inside me, that’s how,” Dean says brightly, because of course he has the answers to everything. He climbs up on top of Castiel, lubricant dripping down the insides of his thighs. “Oh man, oh man, this is _great_.”

“Do I really keep seducing you without meaning to?” Castiel asks curiously.

“But that’s part of your sexy charm, Cas.” Dean reaches behind himself to position Castiel’s erection, and then presses down. He sighs when the head of Castiel’s cock eases inside him. “That’s the ticket. Now try not to come, okay?”

“I.” Castiel gulps for breath, trying not to buck up into the obscene clamp of Dean’s opening. “I wasn’t prepared the last time.”

“Hey, I ain’t judging.” Dean rolls his hips down, down, down until he’s taken all of Castiel inside him. “Oh _yeah_.”

Castiel better keep his eyes closed for this. “I won’t come until you’ve come first.”

“It’s fine, Cas—”

“I won’t!”

“Alrighty then,” Dean says cheerfully.

Castiel’s head slams back against the mattress when Dean starts riding him. It’s _agony._ Dean is riding him as though he means to drive Castiel mad, the smooth clench around Castiel’s cock unpredictable and demanding and punctuated by the pounding slam of Dean’s ass onto Castiel’s lap.

Castiel may not have sexual experience but he knows a thing or two about willpower. He is determined to bear Dean’s riding him, Dean’s squeezing and sliding around his shaft, Dean’s filthy commentary about how _smooth_ Castiel is, how Dean can _feel_ him, how _deep_ Castiel’s dick goes inside him. Castiel closes his eyes and fists the sheets beneath him, and he doesn’t even care that he’s sobbing at every bounce of Dean’s body onto his dick. It’s understandable that he’s making humiliating noises – there’s no point spending energy trying to be quiet when he’s already focusing so hard on _just not coming_.

Dean seems to adore it though, thighs working hard and something-thousand -dollar mattress bouncing around them as Dean fucks himself faster and faster on Castiel’s erection. He practically roars with delight at one point – successful angle, presumably – and his chanting of, “yeah, yeah, _fuck_ , yeah,” finally goes breathless as he nears his orgasm.

Castiel takes a deep breath and tries not to move, tries to pour every ounce of stubbornness he has into ignoring the fire in his skin and the arousal rising to fever pitch low in his stomach.

“Oh,” Dean gasps.

Something soft and wet slaps Castiel’s chin. It takes a second for him to register that it’s Dean’s _come,_ and then Castiel’s eyes are flying open in shock.

It’s apparently _his_ turn to come, for Castiel arcs his back and groans as the sneaky bastard of an orgasm rips through his body at this first sign of weakness. There are more humiliating noises, Castiel’s throat getting an excellent workout, and Dean doing _something_ that manages to wring out another electric jolt of pleasure from Castiel before he’s done.

By the time Castiel’s eyesight has cleared and his breathing partially back to normal, it’s to the sight of Dean smiling down at him. “Enjoyed yourself, huh?” Dean says.

“You are miraculous,” Castiel says breathlessly.

“Aww shucks.” Dean apparently waited for Castiel to come back to his senses before dismounting. He makes a show of rising off of him, muscles flexing in interesting ways as he stretches and then rolls over onto the sheets next to Castiel.

“I’m supposed to…” Castiel raises a weak arm, groping air in direction of the bathroom. “Clean you.”

“Give it a sec.” Dean snuggles down contentedly, rubbing his face against a pillow. “I like the feel, there’s no rush.”

“The feel?”

Dean’s grin is diabolical. “The _feel_.” He shimmies a little, his ass still in the air.

Castiel flushes hot when he catches his meaning. “What… what _does_ that feel like?”

“Sore,” Dean says, eyes half-lidded. “The good kind. It’s… satisfying, I guess, from the inside out, I don’t know how else to describe it. It just feels like I’m _here_ , I’m more real because I can feel all of this. And _you’re_ real, too, because I can feel you dripping down inside my thighs.”

“That is obscene,” Castiel whispers.

Dean must share Castiel’s perversions because he just laughs. It’s a pleasing sound, as warming as all his welcome touches on Castiel’s skin. Castiel just hums when Dean reaches over, smoothing the hair from Castiel’s forehead. “You’re totally gone, man. Get some sleep.”

 “No, I should…” Castiel yawns.

“Seriously, just relax,” Dean says gently. “It’s been a long day. Ride those endorphins all the way to sleepy-bye land.”

Castiel’s about to protest, but it does sound like a good idea to let his eyes drift shut. “All right.”

* * *

When Castiel next returns to consciousness, it’s not morning yet. The lights are down and the covers pulled up to his neck, and it takes him a few groggy moments to process that that hadn’t been the condition with which he’d fallen asleep. He touches himself under the covers, where he finds that he’s naked but clean, his skin clear of dried semen.

Either he cleaned himself while half-asleep, or Dean cleaned him.

At the thought of Dean, Castiel rolls over. The space on the other side of the bed is unkempt but – when Castiel reaches out to touch it – cold.

It’s Dean’s right to sleep elsewhere, of course, Castiel doesn’t mind. He rises out of bed anyway, compelled to ensure that Dean has enough pillows wherever he is.

Dean is outside in the sitting area. Only one of the wall lights has been left on, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. The sole light-source illuminates the chair close to the window that Dean’s chosen for himself, and he’s not asleep. He hasn’t opened the curtains to enjoy the view either, so that can’t be why he’s up.

There is meaning in the fact that the shorts Dean’s wearing are undoubtedly _his_ – they’re a garish bright red color, which no one in either Castiel’s staff or the Winchesters’ would include in their tailored wardrobe.

What’s also interesting is how Dean’s shoulders are hunched and he’s holding something. A talisman of some sort, maybe, though it’s too small for Castiel to make out at this distance. It’s small and glints when it moves, and it’s set at the end of a cord perhaps made for wearing. The smooth curves of the marriage tattoo are stark against Dean’s skin, and somehow make him appear more naked than he is.

Castiel looks down at his own left arm, flexing it to watch the tattoo move with the cords of muscle.

What was it Dean had said earlier? He could’ve gotten married, but now he can’t?

He and Dean are married now, but they don’t know each other. They may have found bliss in each other’s bodies, but that’s only meaningful in the sense that they’ve managed to bypass the awkward ice-breaking period.

There’s no way for Castiel to know if Dean has someone out there waiting for him, or if he’s been waiting for someone. Their physical intimacy certainly doesn’t negate Dean’s possible emotional attachment to someone else. Castiel has no idea if Dean’s in love, or been in love in the past, or had hoped for a love outside the hand that fate has deemed to deal him.

Somehow Castiel had forgotten to ask.

Across the room, Dean makes a soft, hollow sound – not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. He raises another one of his beer bottles and takes a long drag. Castiel retreats silently, leaving him to his privacy.

As Castiel returns into their marital bed, he forms a plan of action in his head. He will have to write to Michael on his new demands for Dean’s future. He will have to order Rachel to ensure that the house is prepared for Dean’s needs, different as they are from Castiel’s own. He will have to see his in-laws and provide whatever funds necessary to find Sam, if he so desires to be found.

All Castiel and Dean need to do now is bear a month in each other’s company for the honeymoon, ensure that they are sighted by a paparazzi or two, and then Dean can return to his life. It won’t be the same as it was before, but surely Castiel can find some leverage with Michael to wring out as much freedom for Dean as possible.

They can manage a month together, surely.


End file.
